Father and Feathers
by HerbalMaiden
Summary: Petyr Baelish throws an extravagant tournament in honor of the marriage between his daughter Alayne Stone and Harrold Hardying. Things go awry. One-shot.


Sansa stared off over the boys and men as they took pause between events and practice of their skills. They vied to earn a pair of wings by the end of the tournament, and extravagent amounts of gold and silver.

Petyr continued his quiet conversation with Harry. Her betrothed couldn't be bothered to look at her. He was insulted by her bastard status, and more so that she had the audacity to threaten him with a small dagger to the throat when he had tried to force himself on her the night of her arrival. Petyr's eyes flashed at her, and her heart froze. He knew. She held his gaze until he was forced to turn away when Harry coughed at the break in attention he so thrived on.

Petyr's hand suddenly clenched her thigh in a sharp pinch. She could not help but flinch at his touch, not only in digust, but pain. He had begun to lose his patience with her, as Alayne had disappeared and Sansa emerged from the second set of feathers with the sharp bite of her family's sigil.

Sansa pressed herself futher into her seat as she caught a shadow speeding closer from the corner of her eye. One moment she felt the faint brush of feathers at the tip of her nose, the next, she found her hand over her mouth at the site of the arrow's mark.

Clear through Petyr Baelish's left eye and out the back of his skull. So strong was the force of impact that the fletched feathers of grey and white nestled themselves in the socket where the corpse's eye once was. For an agonizing moment, the body remained upright before it took a sharp plunge in Sansa's direction. She jumped back as her captor landed with a thump at her feet. She pulled her skirts in her hand and darted from the scene, despite her betrothed's multiple calls for her to come back.

The tournament in honor of her upcoming marriage erupted in chaos as the words 'assassin' and 'murder' swiftly snaked their way through the crowds, noble and common alike. Sansa was able to vanish that much easier. She wove her way through the rising pandamonium and toward the stables. This was as close to freedom as she had ever been since she left Winterfell. She could practically taste it on her tongue.

Few horses remained in their stalls, most had been stationed on the tournament grounds with the pages and squires of the competitors. Sansa was sure the joust has been disbanded, she would only have so much time. Frantically, she pulled the jewels from her fingers, ears, neck, and hair and them into the tall soft hide of the fine leather boots she had opted to wear that morning. The bottom of her dark blue skirts were already muddied, and did well to obscure her fine embroidery work.

Next, she tore her newly made fur cloak from her shoulders and tossed it in the corner of a darkened stall. For a moment, the lady in her balked at the concept of thievery, but the words and winds of a quickly approaching winter forced her hands to snatch the abandoned rough spun wool cloak hanging from a post. What good would escape be if only to freeze to death?

Sansa was no warrior. But she could be brave, she thought to herself as she fingered her cleverly forged decortive dagger that hung at her hip. It rested warm in its concealed pocket of her dress. And she smiled as she recalled how swiftly she'd handled it against Harry only nights ago.

Sansa eyed the lone horse left in the stables. The beast huffed rudely at her and scraped its hoofs on the dirt floor. Thankfully, he was at least saddled and seemingly ready to go. She prayed some of the saddlebags carried food. She did not know anything of surviving off the land, nor how far the next town or port was.

Her hand cautiously reached for the latch of the animal's gate when a much larger one englufed it. She turned sharply and let out a breath of relief.

It was only the tall silent monk that had arrived with his brothers but a week ago. He towered her and stood closer than propiety deemed acceptable. His face was entirely shadowed by the cumbersome cowel that he wore at all times. He shook his head at her.

She licked her lips that had dried and stuck together with the chill in the air.

"Ser, is this steed yours? I do not mean to trouble, but I am in need of a ride to the closest port..." she trailed as the monk did not move or respond. "Or wherever you are headed," she ammended quickly. "It matters not. I-I can pay you." She could have kicked herself after that. A monk would have no need of gold, nor her body. "I could work. I need sanctuary."

The monk's head tilted slightly before he gave the slightest of nods.

"Thank you, ser!" she breathed, her hands darted to grasp one of his within her own out of sheer gratitude.

"Not a ser."

Sansa dropped her hands and narrowed her eyes. She knew that voice, that blatant denial. Suddenly, the man seemed bigger, broader, taller than his cowered and limping demeanor in the presence of his brothers of religious comradery.

"Show me your face," she demanded, not unkindly. "Please."

He didn't hesitate before he pulled the edges of the fabric far enough back to expose his face, the scars. The long black locks and grey eyes reminded her of home, and it had taken her years to realize that they had always brought her some form of comfort. She flushed as she recalled their last encounter, and the cloak and memory of a kiss he had abandoned her with.

"Lost your courtesies, little bird?" he rasped when she did not respond.

She threw herself forward, failing to fully encompass in enourmous frame with her long arms. Her face pressed against the poorly woven brown of his monk attire, but she also felt chainmail and plate beneath it. A familiar calm and comfort fell over her as his physical presence overwhelmed the memories that had served her since they had parted.

Sansa pulled back slightly and looked up to stare him straight in the eye, as she once had not the courage to do. "Not a bird. A wolf."

"Wolves and dogs are not so different," he rasped, his hand hesitantly fingered the dark locks that made her look more a northwoman than ever before.

"The same save for the names really," she agreed with a full grin, baring her teeth.

Sandor raised the corner of his mouth in what she assumed might be a smile. He unlatched the stall and lead Stranger into the open space of the stable, one hand held the reigns as the other pulled his cowel back into place to shield his much tarnished identity. Without warning, his large hands encircled her waist, setting her atop the broad saddle. He swung up behind her and snapped the reigns, sending them away from the last golden cage she would ever see.

Sansa sat tiredly and sorely on the horse blanket Sandor had laid out for her. He turned his back to step into the woods. It was then Sansa saw the bow and quiver slung across his back with a long sword. She did not miss the distinctly striped white and grey feathering of the arrows. The same kind that had pierced Petyr's skull from one end to the other.

"You knew," she breathed, causing him to stop midstep, "You knew it was me beside him."

Sandor turned and swiftly knelt beside her, his hand tilted her chin up so that the heat of his breath warmed her face.

"I told you once, If anyone tried to harm you, I'd kill them." He leaned closer, and Sansa's heart fluttered. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to bestow a second kiss. But his words blew into her ear, close enough that his nose grazed her temple. "I'll kill a thousand more to keep you safe."

The End


End file.
